Plastic Superstars

So many people becoming commercialized robots 'cause of the pop-music industry. It's just machines singing - the pretty face is nothing but a living puppet.

Bodies on display like mannequins, welcome to this beauty-salon-cemetery,

Cremated to layers of gold and bronze, sacred statues for the stupid

To bow their immitation-blonde heads, silent worship of This Week's Issue.

A chemical-bath of tanning spray, a wash-in of yellow, a streaking of gold,

So expensive to buy, yet so easily sold.

 

"Welcome, clones."

 

Superstar, commercial word, comnmercial world,

Sell you, recreate you, metamorph like an insect,

A scrap-metal-butterfly dies on the scrap-heap, your suicide symbol

Of what plastic-"people" aspire to be.

So-called beauty, open your glazed-blue eyes and see.

 

The price of fame, a face-full of plastic,

The time-line of fame is printed on flimsy, colourful pages,

Depicted clearly for every mindless clone,

Superstar's slaves; obey or die alone.

Author's Note

I hope you all enjoy it!